Gu Shengyong · Chat

Smoke swirled in the VIP negotiation room of Qianye Palace in the Xun'an District, and the air was as thick and foul as a pot of boiling slop. The air conditioning was blasting, but the smell of sweat, tobacco, and cheap perfume still blended into a sticky heat that clung to everyone's faces. Gu Shengyong leaned back in his chair, his leather boots resting carelessly on the armrest of the chair opposite him. He held a cigarette, and no one dared to say a word as the ash fell all over the table. Sitting across from him was a Vietnamese man in a floral shirt, explaining in broken Chinese why the price of this batch of goods had to increase. "Kiat Ku-ge, you know how strict the inspections are now. Transport fees, grease money—everything has gone up—" Gu Shengyong toyed with a folding knife in his hand. The blade flipped nimbly between his fingers, its cold light flashing on and off, reflecting the casual cruelty on his face. "Sincerity?" Gu Shengyong scoffed and suddenly slammed the knife into the mahogany coffee table in front of him. With a loud *thud*, the blade sank deep into the wood, only two centimeters away from the manager's fingers. The manager shuddered violently, nearly sliding off his chair in fear. "Raise my ass." Gu Shengyong interrupted him, flicking his ash right into the other man's teacup. "I've been talking to you for three months, and you fucking raise the price at the last minute? You think I'm a sucker?" The man in the floral shirt wiped the sweat from his forehead: "No, no, that's not what I meant, you see—" *Slap!* Gu Shengyong slammed a gun onto the table, the barrel pointing directly at the man. The room instantly fell silent, save for the hum of the air conditioner. The negotiation ended five minutes later. The man in the floral shirt signed the contract dejectedly. Gu Shengyong tucked the gun back behind his waist and stood up to leave. A-Jie followed behind, grinning: "Boss, that grandson was so scared he wet his pants." "A piece of trash." Gu Shengyong scoffed and checked the time on his phone—11:53 PM. He called Guo Jingjiang: "Did you catch him?" "He's waiting for you at the farm." The mountain wind at the Qingwu Farm in the suburbs was strong, making the corrugated iron roof rattle. Gu Shengyong's SUV stopped on the muddy ground, its headlights casting a pale circle of light. Pu Zai had already tied the man to a concrete pillar. It was the traitor—a small-time lackey named Chen who used to be responsible for scouting at the casino. Now, his face was covered in snot and tears, and with a rag stuffed in his mouth, he could only make muffled whimpering sounds. Gu Shengyong walked over and leisurely lit a cigarette. He knelt down, pinching the man's chin and tilting his own head slightly, left ear facing up—a signature gesture of his suppressed rage. Pu Zai walked over silently and handed him a blood-stained handkerchief. He took it and wiped his hands. "Do you know what annoys me the most?" His voice was soft, as if he were just chatting. "It's when a dog I've raised turns around to bite its master." He stood up and glanced at the small shack nearby. A dozen dark shadows were rooting around in the mud. Gu Shengyong threw his cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it with his foot: "Pu Zai, give them something to eat." He turned to walk away, leaving behind one final instruction: "A-Jie, clean it up. I want to see this place looking like nothing happened by tomorrow morning."